


never leaving you again

by Of the League (Serpyre)



Series: The Canary and the Demon [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Episode: s01e14 River of Time, F/F, League of Assassins - Freeform, Malcolm Merlyn is a Douchebag, Nyssappiness, Nyssara, One Shot, but still angst, inner thoughts, maybe..., not as angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpyre/pseuds/Of%20the%20League
Summary: She told her to leave her behind, and she did. (1x14)





	never leaving you again

Nyssa heard the fighting outside of the dungeon. Her relaxed brow furrowed slightly as she shifted her meditating position, trying to drown out the noise outside.

It had been weeks. It was weeks since she was first cast down into the cells of her own walls of Nanda Parbat. Weeks since she had destroyed her Father’s legacy, the Lazarus Pit that furnished him with immortality. Weeks since she was trapped down under her own walls, by the order of Malcolm Merlyn. She refused to call him Ra’s.

She plainly ignored the food that she was given — which was left untouched at the foot of the cell bars, as it had been for the past few weeks. Every day, her guards would slide her a tray of food — as if feeding a dog. Every day, she would leave it as it is, only taking a few scraps when necessary. She was rightfully the Heir to the Demon, and it would be an insult to her pride if she were to wolf down the food she was given like a lapdog. The empty pit in her stomach was yearning, gnawing, _churning_ impatiently — but she didn’t intend to feed it anytime soon.

The cold cell walls were damp. It had always been, when she’d been sent here multiple times under orders of Ra’s al Ghul; to complete her training, and sometimes as a punishment for daring to defy him. She knew every nook, every cranny of this place, and if Malcolm Merlyn thought that he could keep her in the very walls that she had grown up in, the place where she knew better than the subconscious of her mind… well, he was wrong.

In order for her plan to work, though, she had to convince Malcolm Merlyn that she was subdued. First, starting with refusing the meals that she was given, only enough to keep herself alive — and second, weakening herself to the point where she almost even believed it. She had never liked acting. She especially held an unwavering grudge against undercover missions… that was, until Sara came in. She almost sighed, remembering her Beloved’s unnecessary, but welcome excuses to steal almost excess glances and touches.

She just had to find the right time. And now, with her guards distracted outside, no one could stop her, the walls of her cell only a hindrance — and the noise of the swinging swords and thumps would work well as a diversion.

Finally, almost ever since Sara’s death, she let a small smirk wander upon her features. She took an inconspicuous, jagged metal wire that she hid just beneath the sleeve of her forearm. There were multiple layers to her armor, and even though Malcolm Merlyn had her checked before escorting her into the dungeon, the old Magician was running out of tricks, and she had a few up her sleeve as well.

Not wasting a single second, she left her meditating stance, and strolled over to the cell lock. The fighting outside was still at large, but she doubted that the noise outside would even barely manage to cover the noise that the cell was about to make. Swiftly, she slid the barbed piece of wire into the familiar lock outside, and she let a true smile wander onto her features as she took in satisfying creak as it opened. It was an old trick in the book, but a useful one. If Malcolm Merlyn were to lock her up, then he should’ve done it so in someplace far, far away from Nanda Parbat… and even then, she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t escape. The League of Assassins was famous for being able to escape even in the most dire of situations, after all.

Smirking, she saw the assassins outside, fighting against their own whilst holding their own against another person in a white garb. _Holding their own_ would be a mercy to say, though.

The unknown assailant blew through the assassins like a hurricane blazing through cities, leaving behind a trail of destruction — broken swords and broken bodies alike. They were masked — but when their eyes caught her own, her heart leapt. She didn’t dare to hope… but hope she did. _Could it be…?_

No. It couldn’t be. She told her to leave her behind, and she did. She wouldn’t come back — that was a different type of impossible that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

_She remembered Sara’s smug voice and her own, stony gaze as she tried to hide the pride swelling in her chest. The arrow, still swinging softly from the impact was firmly stuck in the center of the small red dot._

_She turned from the archery range_ , _and observed her smirking Beloved with mild astonishment._

_'I will have to admit, I did not believe that you would succeed, Habibti.''_

_Sara had responded with a chuckle, and her smirk was replaced with a wistful gaze. ''Anything is possible, Nyssa…''_

Letting out a sad chuckle, she remembered the times that she had said that. Her small, hopeful little canary. And she to her, the light that led her through her darkness, because she was the very embodiment of darkness — the Demon that she took comfort in. Brushing all thoughts of her _Habibti_ aside, she picked up a sword from one of the many fallen and tested its weight — normally, she wouldn’t have come to such extremities, because the respect for the Dead was an important customary in the League, but she was on the brink.

Murmuring a small prayer to the fallen and a thank to the gods, she gripped the hilt of the blade tightly and sent out a silent dare for the assassins to approach.

Sure enough, a few did. All of them now lay dead beside her previous cell, their eyes closed and forms broken. She did not pray for them. It was stupidity at it’s finest, to dare challenge the Demon’s Heir.

She wished that that had remained true for her entire lifetime. Once, when she was still young and just began her training — her Father would often beckon for his finest assassins to challenge her to a brawl, and if she was defeated in battle, then the title of Heir would belong to the challenger and she would be disgraced and demoted. No one had bested her, not before, not now, not ever. She had fought to keep the top spot, and it wasn’t to be so easily let go… but now, it was claimed by two outsiders in a row, one whom she was betrothed to, and the other — an enemy, the unrevenged murderer of her Beloved.

Growling, she let out a guttural roar and finally dove into battle, the meditation wearing off and the rage that had always pulsed in the dim, hollow void in her chest ever since the image of Sara, lying so painfully pale in the cold morgue, spine cracked and head snapped at a terrifyingly unnatural angle from the fall, the image of Sara projected in her mind, so horrifyingly and cruelly dead...

Rage finally caught up to her features. She slashed, parried, decapitated and demolished, and nobody — no _one_ stopped her. No one could.

It was until she faced the assassin in white, her breathing heavy and her brow sweaty, her hands stained with the blood of her enemies — did she realize the carnage that she’d made.

The assassin before her seemed to disregard this, however. She gazed at her longingly, so painfully _familiarly_ — and Nyssa felt her heart speed into overdrive — a feeling that she hadn’t had in nearly forever. A feeling that she denied herself from having, because she didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve Love, because she had betrayed love when she became betrothed to Al Sah-Him; didn’t deserve happiness because she was the Demon, the very essence, the very _thing_ that took happiness away from people.

It was when the assassin took off their mask did she allow herself to breathe again.

Her Beloved’s features were the same, if not more ashen and cragged. She gazed at her form and broke into a weary smile, her hands tentatively leaving her side and travelling up to cradle her cheek. Nyssa closed her eyes, and let herself remember her Beloved’s familiar, practiced touch.

She let out a long-awaited, drawn out sigh, and shut her already-watery eyes — not wanting the droplets to fall, to show her true feelings, not wanting her heart to be broken over again, and again… by the same person, even.

She tried. One betraying tear slid from her closed eyelids anyway.

Sara’s thumb instinctively brushed the tear away, leaving a trail of wet that had slipped down from her eye — her _warm_ touch, her _alive_ touch, the so-very _Sara_ touch on her cheek finally registering in her deprived mind, making her open her eyes in shock — stifle a sound akin to a sob and gasp for breath, a sound suspiciously similar to a hiccup and so un-Heirlike leaving her voice.

This didn’t go unnoticed by Sara. Her voice softened as she took in her Beloved, her misty eyes never leaving her face. ''Hey. It’s okay.'' Nyssa stole a glance at the carnage. As Sara followed the direction of her gaze, despite the current situation they were in — grinned sheepishly. ''Sorry…? Well, hopefully, I didn’t destroy too much of your future inheritance, though technically…''

She trailed off as she glanced at the dungeon around her, glare hardening on the cell door like it was a curse. The two words that ran in her Beloved's rapid mind were obvious— Malcolm Merlyn. Sara's gaze became serious once more, leaving her previous, joking attire, gaze hardening and burning with a level of intensity that Nyssa was familiar with, so many years ago that she never imagined she would see again.

''I love you, you know. And I have never stopped loving you, and I never will. I remember what I said about how we were not meant to be together… in this life, in this timeline and in this Earth…''

Suddenly, her entire posture broke. Her brave facade dropped as her shoulders slumped, the tears brimming in her now crestfallen eyes. Her hand on Nyssa’s cheek weakened, her once strong, protective caress gone. Nyssa instinctively trailed _her_ fingers on her Beloved’s cheek, tentatively brushing a tear that rolled down her cheeks away. Her palm touching her Beloved’s jawline, she returned the favor.

Her Beloved stifled something close to a sob, voice at the near edge of cracking. ''I love you, okay? And don’t you dare think otherwise.''

She couldn’t help it. The words slipped from her mouth. ''And I to you, Habibti.''

Surprising herself, Nyssa closed her eyes again — but not before taking in everything of her Beloved — her entire attire, her alert but relaxed posture, her watery gaze, her wistful _smile_ and her tentative, weak but still _true_ touch. Her every _breath_ , her every _sound_ , her every _movement_ …

She opened her eyes.

Sara smiled sadly. ''I couldn’t leave you behind. Maybe we _were_ never meant to be… but I’ll — we’ll make our destinies, even if it _is_  technically destined to happen.'' Finally, a cheeky smile made its way onto her saddened features.

Hand still caressing Sara’s warm cheek and the bottom of her palm touching her jawline, she pulled her into a kiss, in the middle of the dark dungeons of Nanda Parbat, in the middle of the hopeless, dreary walls of the League, in the middle of her dark, bleak destiny.

She smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcome. Wasn't sure if I was going to post or not, but we're here now, so....
> 
> This might turn into a Two-Shot (prequel), which I'm writing, so if you're interested, you can stay tuned for that.
> 
> I have... a lot of Nyssara one-shots that I am yet to post, and maybe a few stories but shh. 
> 
> Hope you liked!


End file.
